Chapter 21 #2
“Dinnae fash,” Arran assured his governess. “We got him.”
Coward.
The word echoed over and over again in Lachlan’s thoughts even as he fought. Every time he glanced up to examine the progression of the battle, his eyes would catch on the line of horses keeping to the back of the field. Nearly hidden by the cover the treeline offered, Dudley sat and waited.
Lachlan grunted, swinging the blade of one sword into the gut of an Englishman, while using the hilt of his dagger to knock another unconscious. He stepped and moved to take on the next man brave enough to face him.
All the while, he couldn’t help but feel the Baron’s eyes on him. It had been the same thing when the English forces had last attacked. Dudley had sent in his men, letting his army do the damage the Baron had longed to inflict. And his men had been quite the weapon.
Sword swinging again, Lachlan was thrust back to the last time he had fought for his home, for his life like this.
Battle, from one to the next, all sounds the same.
The echoes of swords clashing, arrows flying, axes landing carry through the air the same.
It does not matter the years that separate wars.
Each boasts of men striving to claim that which is not theirs, while others try desperately to cling to their homes.
Fires rage, destroying homes and livelihoods.
The scars of battle marking man and land alike.
Lachlan knew it all too well. The sounds of war had followed him, haunting his dreams and nightmares, threatening to take all that he loved and found dear just as soon as he had managed to rebuild it.
Another English soldier fell at his feet.
He moved quickly, spinning on the balls of his feet as he disarmed another and pushed back a third.
With the sleeve of his tunic, he wiped sweat from his brow before lunging back into things.
They were not winning. There were simply too many men to fend off now.
Too many of his own had lost their positions of strength, and the number of bodies that scattered the ground was so great that he struggled to step without landing on one.
This was the second time now that these cobblestones had turned red with the blood of his people and allies.
The second time that the Baron had invaded his home and threatened all who resided here.
With every swing of the sword, Lachlan’s mind flashed across the faces of those he had loved and lost. His parents and dear friends.
His comrades who died to protect their home.
The soldiers he had trained with, had led into the fray.
The men who had sacrificed themselves so he could escape Dudley’s prison.
All the women and children the Baron had not seen fit to leave out of his fight.
Spinning again, Lachlan shifted closer to Aila.
His heart nearly burst at the sight of her fighting so bravely for their home.
This had always been his home, his people to defend and protect.
But this time was different. He was the Laird now.
The leader of this clan. He had a wife and children who were counting on him to keep them safe.
In a long arc, Lachlan sent his sword swinging over Aila’s head, taking out the man who had tried to attack her when she had been busy with another.
“Dinnae fash, my love,” he told her, hoping his words would carry over the sound of the fight. “I will nae let them harm ye.”
He said it more for himself than for her sake, but his words seemed to bolster courage for both of them.
“They are in the castle,” she told him, eyes wide with distress. “The children. They will find the children.”
The thought soured in Lachlan’s stomach. He had already witnessed how Dudley viewed the lives of the innocent. And it certainly wasn’t with a spirit of protection.
“Nay. They are well hidden. And even if they are found, Arran is armed. They have been training for this.”
He shook the thought from his head, his sword catching on another man’s in a fight that was beginning to demand more of his attention than he had anticipated.
“We must nae think such things.” He breathed through the exhaustion in his arms, willing his body to keep going. “It will be different this time. It must.”
It was the same sentiment he had told Arran in an attempt to soothe the boy’s fears. Lachlan was beginning to question just how feeble of a statement it truly was.
Lachlan roared, the final push of strength giving him what he needed to finish off his opponent. Fury began to overtake his growing exhaustion. Anger rising in his bones, giving him the might needed to keep going.
It had taken him years to reclaim all the Baron had stolen from him. And now that he had found happiness, had found a family once more, Lachlan was on the precipice of losing it all over again.
The thought fanned his fury to a white-hot rage that he took out on the men who came against him.
He was nearly blind with anger, fighting so ferociously that he tuned out everything else on the battlefield.
He moved in a fluent dance, swords always swinging, never stopping too long as he tried to plow through the onslaught of Englishmen.
It was the sound of a shrill scream that wrenched him from his focus.
Chest heaving, he turned over his shoulder just in time to see the largest English soldier on the field disarm Aila. Oliver and James were both too engrossed in their own fights to notice her vulnerability. Sorcha was barely able to hold her own against her opponent to get to Aila.
Too many men separated him from Aila. It was too great a distance for him to stop the down swing of the man’s weapon.
He didn’t care. He took off sprinting through the chaos, leaping over bodies and slamming into the bellies of the men who dared to get in his way.
Barreling through the courtyard, he watched in pure terror as the Englishman’s sword pierced Aila’s side.
She had moved just enough that the sharpest tip avoided her neck, but not so far as to skirt the blade altogether.
A sickening shade of red immediately seeped into her shirt. Her face paled as her eyes sought him. His heart slammed into his chest, threatening to give out completely at the thought of witnessing her death.
“Nay!” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing over the fray. “Leave her be!”
Aila fell to her knees, her hands pressed hard against her bleeding side. Her head dipped in defeat. The sight was one sure to haunt him for the rest of his life, should he survive this nightmare. It served to spur him on faster.
The man raised his sword again, all too ready to finish her off.
But Lachlan’s legs flew through the crowd, landing him at her side before the blade had risen to its peak.
He threw himself over Aila, knocking them both to the ground.
She cried out in pain, the sound piercing his heart.
But he did not move. Instead, he covered every inch of her skin with his body.
His hands, still gripping his swords, boxed in around her head.
His back shielded her heart, her wound. His legs laid on top of hers, giving the enemy no sight of her.
“Take me,” he offered hoarsely.
“Nay, Lachlan,” Aila spat out in pained horror.
“Take me instead,” he said again, more firmly.
He braced for the pain of death. In his lifetime, he had felt anguish and loss and gut-wrenching pain often enough to welcome it gladly if it meant saving his love.
He waited for the soldier, any of them surrounding his forces, to jump on the opportunity he was providing them.
There was no doubt that Dudley had offered them a grand reward for the man capable of felling Laird Kincaid.
And he was giving them that chance, offering it on a silver platter.
So there he lay, waiting for death to claim him.